Name:  John "JD" August (named after the ubiquitous John Doe and the month he was found)
Aliases: Prince Philip Astraeus of Coventry, The Lyonesse Prince of Dusk, Sapphire Knight
Gender: Male
Age: 29ish
Appearance:  John has natural good looks with the same blonde hair he had as a boy.  His deep blue eyes have lost some of their spark, but are still 'dreamy' or so the girls say.  His face might be considered handsome or rugged in the right light, his nose described as 'having character', which is really just a nice way of saying it was broken once upon a time.  His height at 6'2" can only be attributed to genes, but his broad shoulders and strong arms come from years of working out, maintained in part out of vanity, in part necessity of the job.  When not in armor for work, he tends towards jeans, t-shirts. t-shirts and hoodies when it was cold.

Personality:  There was a time when John was idealistic and imaginative and tried to live up to the ideals of his childhood heroes, but that was a long time ago.  Now, he's mostly jaded and cynical.  Once seeing himself as the defender of the weak, now he takes advantage of them, drowning is ennui in drink and sex.  In general, he's just been going through the motions for the last 10 plus years, a fact that has left him empty and hollow.  Then again, some little bit of that boy has refused to die and there's a part of him that knows it.

History:   He wondered how he wound up in such a sorry state, sitting handcuffed in a police station wearing a God awfully shiny suit of armor.  He didn't mind the curious looks or the quips from those passing by, it was the confused look a little boy gave him, seeming more disappointed in him than the father that had beat his mother so bad paramedics were treating her wounds while she sobbed and told the police her story.  He'd been like that little boy once, remembered when he first saw the world for the dark ugly place it really was.

~O~
He didn't remember his parents, at least not anymore.  He used to, he thought, but somewhere he lost even their memory.  Probably the same time as his innocence, he thought.  A shrink would probably love that, if he could afford one or would bother.

He was 4 or 5 when he wound up in the Foster Care system.  They weren't sure when his birthday was, so they just put down the day they found him and guessed at his age, going lower so he could stay in the system a little longer.  It was probably meant as a kindness.  It wasn't.

Most of the kids coming through the house only stayed a little while, either because there caused too much trouble or because their parents or parent got sober, clean, did their time or did whatever else they needed to do in order to get their kids back.  He was one of the only lifers or at least the only one with a 14 year sentence.

Still, it wasn't all bad, especially once Molly showed up.  She was a year older than him and he thought she was the prettiest, smartest girl he'd ever met.  She was like Wendy to their Lost Boys, telling them stories, breaking up their fights and making sure they washed behind their ears.  She's the one who first told him the stories about King Arthur and his Knights.  He loved those stories and memorized them all, obsessing over the rules and codes.  He'd go about with a stick as a sword and a piece of cardboard as a shield, jumping up on the couch like it was the ramparts of a castle, promising to protect her.  She usually just laughed, except when it got him in trouble, either locked away by their foster parents or beat up by the bigger kids.  It earned him plenty of bloody noses and black eyes, as well as more than a few time outs when he was caught swinging his 'sword' inside the house.  But he didn't care.  A knight stuck to the code, regardless of the consequences.  Better to die or be grounded, than give up his sword, better to be beaten and bruised than ever yield.

He was 11 when all that changed or rather, when Molly changed.  He didn't understand it at first, why she stopped smiling, stopped telling them stories of knights and princesses and dragons.  He still didn't understand when she started getting angry with everyone, especially with him, telling him to grow up.  He tried to stick to his guns, said he was going to grow up and be a famous knight and then she'd see.  When she laughed that time, it was different, dark, mean.  Didn't you pay attention, she said, reminding him of the stories, they never have happy endings.  And she was right.  Lancelot and Guinevere betray Arthur.  Tristan and Isolde both die, Merlin is trapped in a cave or a bush, Balan and Balin kill each other.  Things never ended well for the knights or their loves.  He never knew if she got a happy ending or not.  She was moved a few months later, one of those difficult kids the foster parents couldn't handle anymore.

He was 14 when he figured it out.  More girls came and went and he saw the patterns, the way what little light they had in their eyes was snuffed out, the way Mel, their foster dad hugged them or had them do chores in his room.  He was 15 when he bashed the man's head in with a stick.

He would probably been tried as an adult if he'd actually killed him, but as it was, they didn't want to drag things out in court, so instead he spent his last 3 years as a youth in detention.  It wasn't all bad.  He mostly kept to himself.  He could lift weights, read books, even learned to cook, though nothing fancy, more large scale.  That's how he got his first job on getting out.

He thought it was ironic, getting the job at Medieval Times, poetic justice maybe or a cruel joke.  It was even more ironic when he became a knight.  He was an alright cook, but did better in the stands.  He had the look, his manager said, promising that if he played his cards right, he could move up.  It wasn't so much that he wanted that as he didn't have a drive for anything else and soon enough he was a squire, doing all the degrading and mundane things a real squire might do.  They were all, at least while on the clock, very serious about the way they stayed in character and he longed for the day he'd wear armor, more to get out of being bossed around than any childhood dreams.

That came sooner than it did for most, which caused some jealousy, but he was good, so most let it slide.  The performances were choreographed, but there was an element of danger, of randomness.  He figured it was a lot like professional wrestling.  They decided who was going to win up front, planned out their moves, gave little signals and signs through the fight and generally things went the way they were meant to.  That's not to say there wasn't danger.  Lances, even as lightweight and designed to break as they were, still hurt and decent sized splinters were common.  Swords, though dulled, still left bruises when swung too hard.  And practices, well, they often got out of hand.

Still, it was fun, in a way.  He liked being physical, liked horses, liked swinging swords.  And he liked being a knight.  As corny and hokey as it was, there were always a few girls in the audience that were into the whole fantasy thing and most of the guys took advantage of it.  Occasionally, like had happened tonight, there would be a bachelorette party in the crowd, some bride to be with a fairy tale theme choosing Medieval Times for dinner before heading off to the strip club, or if they were really goody goody, this was it.

It was Derrick, Sir Ulster, who made first noticed them, spotting them in the reservations book.  The rest just fell into place.  They worked their fights towards the girls' section, made sure to dedicate their victories to the bride to be, asked them for a token and sent a few extra rounds their way.  By the end of the night, the strip club was out, their hotel suite was in.

"To the victor goes the spoils," Barry had said, congratulating him on his victory as the Grand Champion of the evening.  A few of the others had already paired up, Sir Ulster already half out of his armor and half into one of the bridesmaids over on the couch.  He thought he heard someone quip "Prima Noctis" as he carried the girl into the master bedroom.

He wasn't sure if it was the fact that she was engaged, whether it was the way she said "take me Sir Knight" or the drink, but he was unable to move after he'd dropped her on the bed, his reflection in the mirror so ashamed of the sight before it.

"Where are you going," came the first question, teasing and cloying.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," came the next, angry now.

Curses followed, foul vile things for a princess to spew.  Barry tried to stop him, but was pushed aside.  Something was thrown and broke against the wall, but he didn't care.  She'd be fine, there were plenty of other knights to save her.

He threw up outside before getting in his car.  It smelled of perfume and sweat.  He got two whole blocks before the lights flashed behind him and he was pulled over.


He'd read somewhere that blood tests were more accurate than a breathalyzer.  In that same article, it said most people went for that option because it took longer, couldn't be done on the spot and by the time it was done, you'd likely have less alcohol in your system.  He was hopeful that was the case.  He had a few other misdemeanors on his record, include a gross misdemeanor for breaking in entering, though he'd argued how could it be breaking when he had a key.  He'd gotten off with probation for that one, but it would be broken if he was busted for a DUI.

"Alright Sir Galahad," the officer had joked.

"It's the Sapphire Knight," John corrected, which only managed to get his cuffs tightened another notch.  At least now in the station, his hands were in the front, and he was mostly sober, enough he was hoping he wouldn't be going to jail.  If he could just get the look of that boy's face out of his mind, everything might be OK.